Chapter Twenty-Four
1857
Sunday breakfast at the Ranahans was always a raucous affair with four children needing to be fed at once. Usually, Letta was there to help, but she had gone with Otto to visit her parents in Kleindeutschland for the weekend. Emily stood over the stove preparing eggs and bacon. “Breakfast is ready.”
Michael scooped Claire up off the floor and placed her in her highchair. “Are you ready to eat?” he asked.
Claire banged her spoon. “Mama, mama …”
“I’ll take that to mean yes.”
Emily shot a worried glance at Michael. “She has no appetite.”
“Didn’t the doctor say she has a delicate stomach?”
Emily stroked her daughter’s wispy blonde hair. “I know, but she must eat. Look how thin she is?”
“She’ll do better as she gets older,” Michael said with more conviction than he felt. The truth was, Emily was right. Little Claire was unquestionably the sickliest of the four children.
That could not be said of two-year old Peter who scrambled up onto a chair next to his father. “I’m ready, Da,” he said in the serious way that he approached everything.
Michael tousled his son’s hair and grinned. “You’re always ready, aren’t you, Peter?”
“Yes, Da.”
As usual, Eleanor made her dramatic entrance. She had a stately way about her, almost regal, which Michael attributed to her mother’s lineage. For certain her imperial demeanor did not come from the Ranahan line of tenant farmers.
Emily studied her daughter and smiled, “My, my what a pretty frock.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
“Just think, Michael, she’s only three and see how well she dresses herself.”
“Like a little princess.”
As Eleanor took her seat, Emily dished out the eggs and bacon. “Where’s Dermot?”
“Late as usual,” Michael said, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. “Dermot,” he bellowed, “get down here.”
They heard the heavy footsteps of protest on the stairs. A sullen Dermot came into the kitchen and threw himself into a chair.
“Good morning, Dermot,” Emily said, trying to ease the immediate tension that her son generally caused when he came into a room.
The boy stared at his plate in silence.
“Dermot,” Michael said, “Your mother said good morning.”
“What’s so good about it?”
Michael was about to reprimand his son, but he saw the warning look from his wife and he refrained.
They ate in strained silence. Just as they were finishing up, Dermot jumped up.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Michael asked.
“My room.”
“You know you don’t leave the table without permission.”
It had all been Emily’s idea. She had been raised in a refined household. Manners and proper decorum were to be adhered to at all times. At first, Michael thought it silly to impose such restrictions on young children, but when she explained that if children didn’t learn proper manners at an early age, it might prove impossible to teach them later, he realized she was right. Looking at his surly son, he also realized there was a lot more to do in the manners department.
Dermot rolled his eyes. “Can I leave?”
Michael hesitated, trying to decide if he should punish his son for his rude behavior, but it was such a beautiful morning that he didn’t want to ruin it for the rest of them. “You may leave,” he said, curtly.
Taking advantage of the weather, Michael and Emily took the other three children out to the garden in the back. The advertisement for the house had promised a garden “filled with elegant forest trees,” but the few scrawny trees that had been planted died the first winter. It was only through the efforts of Emily that the garden looked as inviting as it did. Every spring, she planted new trees and shrubs and tenderly care for the existing ones.
When they’d first moved in here, Fortieth Street was mostly vacant lots with a few squatter’s shanties scattered here and there. But now, more and more residential and commercial buildings were going up all around them. The serenity that they’d enjoyed when they’d first moved here was shattered by the constant sounds of construction and traffic. It was only here in the garden that the outside sounds were muffled.
Michael and Emily sat in the shade of a young poplar watching their children play with their blocks and trucks and dolls.
After a long silence, he said, “What are we going to do with him?”
Emily shook her head. “I don’t know. He’s not like the other children. Look how well they play together.”
“What’s to be done?”
“I don’t know, Michael. I wish I knew.”
Although it had been almost seven years since Gaylord Temple had tried to get Michael to develop a taste for oysters, he hadn’t given up and today they were at an oyster bar on Rector Street.
“So, how’s business?”
“It’s grand. Purchasing those additional wagons and hiring fifteen more men was the best thing I’ve ever done.”
Gaylord shoved the plate of oysters toward Michael. “Are you sure you don’t want one?”
Michael pushed the plate away. “Positive. I’ll just drink my beer and watch you swallow those disgusting things.”
The newspaperman shrugged. “Suit yourself. You know, the city has gone quite mad.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Have you ever heard of a city with two police departments?”
“What city would that be?”
“New York City. Where else?”
“You mean here?”
“I do.”
“How can that be?”
“It’s all politics, as usual. Upstate Republican legislators believe there is massive police corruption under Mayor Fernando Wood.”
Michael grunted. “Well, they’re right about that. Do you know how much money I have to pay out to a non-ending stream of beat patrolmen and inspectors to keep from getting tickets for everything from blocking the sidewalks to overloaded carts?”
“Which is why the upstate Republicans passed a law called the Metropolitan Police Act. Among other things, it abolishes the Municipal Police Department and authorizes the creation of a Metropolitan Police Force under the supervision of five commissioners appointed by the governor; thus, cutting Mayor Wood out of control of the police.”
“What does Wood have to say about all this?”
“As one would expect, he refuses to recognize the authority of the Metropolitan Police Department.” The newspaperman rubbed his hands together. “Well, now it’s getting hot. The new commission has ordered Mayor Wood to disband the Municipal police and turn over its property to the Metropolitans. Wood has refused to comply.”
“Can he do that?”
“He’s done it, and now the city is in chaos. Criminals arrested by the Municipals are set free by the Metropolitans. Both police departments are fighting over possession of station houses and equipment. It’s all quite madcap.”
“I can imagine.”
Gaylord glanced at his pocket watch and stood up. “I’ve got to get over to City Hall. I have it on good authority that Metropolitan police captain George Walling is going to deliver a second warrant for the mayor’s arrest.
“Second warrant?”
“Yes. The first time Walling attempted to serve the warrant, he was tossed out of City Hall by the Municipals. Do you want to come? It might be entertaining.”
“Sounds like fun, but I’ve got an appointment with an architect.”
When Gaylord arrived at City Hall dozens of uniformed Municipals were already lined up on the top steps of City Hall. At the foot of the steps was a motley collection of rough looking men armed with clubs. Gaylord recognized most of them as Dead Rabbits.
A roar went up from the crowd as Captain Walling and a phalanx of uniformed Metropolitan policemen advanced toward City Hall.
Gaylord rushed out to meet the captain. With his barrel chest, dark eyebrows, and piercing blue eyes, the captain had all physical characteristics of a no-nonsense policeman.
“Good afternoon, Captain Walling. I’m Gaylord Temple from the New York Tribune. Why are you here today?”
“I am here to serve a warrant on Mayor Fernando Wood at the behest of the board of commissioners.”
“Captain, how do you propose to gain entry to City Hall? As you can see, it’s guarded by a rather large contingent of Municipal policemen. And the rabble on the lower steps, judging by the blue stripe down their pantaloons, are members of the Dead Rabbits.”
Captain Walling looked at them with scorn. “That is precisely why the Municipals must be disbanded. Under Mayor Wood, corruption is rampant. When the Metropolitan police force is clearly established, there will be no consorting with the likes of the Dead Rabbits or their ilk. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a warrant to serve.”
As there were many more Municipals than Metropolitans, Gaylord assumed there would be no confrontation. But in an instant, the two groups converged and men on both sides started pummeling each other and swinging clubs with abandon. Men, knocked senseless, rolled helplessly down the steps only to be beaten again. Gaylord furiously took notes of the unfolding scene. He already knew what the headline of his story would be: Police Riot in New York City.
The battle between the two police forces raged for almost a half hour. Just when it looked hopeless for the outnumbered Metropolitans, a platoon from the Seventh Regiment appeared and advanced toward City Hall with fixed bayonets. With the soldiers outnumbering both groups, order was quickly restored. Captain Walling followed the soldiers into City Hall. Minutes later, a triumphant Walling escorted his prisoner, an infuriated Mayor Wood, down the steps to a waiting police wagon.
As Wood was getting into the wagon, Gaylord called out, “Mr. Mayor, do you have anything to say?”
Recognizing the newspaperman, Wood said, “This is a travesty of justice. The state legislature is trying to turn New York City into a subjugated city. This will not stand.”